


Transformation.

by orphan_account



Series: Fleeting [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 21:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 1 of Fleeting series that deals with Tony's alcoholism and Bruce's reactions to it. Some erratic, alcoholic behavior. Also, lots of feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transformation.

Tony doesn’t turn into an enormous green rage monster. Tony turns into an average-sized bitter asshole. He hasn’t pinpointed where it started yet. He guesses it didn’t really have to start anywhere; he’d always had his own demons. Most people don’t notice. He has to admit it’s a subtle difference. Nothing he’s done with the arc reactor has impressed him in months, even if Time magazine is biting at the bit to call him a clean energy hero or something similarly aligned to their wet dream for his future.

The newest addition to his wardrobe is a sterling silver hip flask. Pepper noticed. Pepper went on vacation. Bruce had noticed too, but strangely hadn’t said anything. Not a confrontational guy, anyway. Bad for his health. Tony laughs at his own jokes in the quiet unsanctuary of his office as he pours himself another glass of bourbon. Folders upon folders of account details and technology updates lay unread on his desk, which might be why the company isn’t exactly doing so hot. He should appoint someone else for that, since Pepper’s on vacation and all. He takes a long pull of his drink and sets it back on the table, nearly missing because his depth perception is already fucked over.

Someone comes to the door. He isn’t quite in focus but the puffy curls were identifiable enough. “Bruce! Hey. There’s a chair around here somewhere if you can find it.” He notices his arms are swinging in wider arcs. The way Bruce is looking at him Tony knows he’s gauging, calculating like he always is before he takes a seat at least ten feet away. Wasn’t too long ago they would have skipped sitting in chairs entirely in favor of carnality. The hip flask might as well have been Bruce Banner repellent; they haven’t slept together since he got it.

Tony tries again. “Don’t talk too much, now.” Bruce smiles and it looks damn near painful. “Why are you here, anyway? You’ve been avoiding me like the plague.”

Bruce chuckles to himself, and Tony’s learned by now to dread that heartless noise. “The ‘plague’,” he actually uses air quotes, the bastard, “is eradicated. This is more serious.”

“What is?”

Bruce rolls his eyes, and Tony has half a mind to ask him to get out. Bruce points to his tumbler. “It’s a disease, Tony—“

Tony cuts him off by slamming his glass on the table, up on unsteady feet in a matter of seconds. “Don’t start with me, Banner!” Spittle flies from his mouth and connects to Bruce’s glasses, and with unwavering patience Bruce uses his shirt to wipe them off.

“I came here to turn in my resignation, Tony.” Tony sits back down. He feels like he got punched in the gut, and the alcohol is making his head swim and making this announcement ten times more unbelievable.

“You can’t—you can’t leave me here, Bruce, you’re all I have left! Even Pepper is gone, I—fuck!” he slams his fists on the table and Bruce flinches away from him. Tony watches him curiously. Bruce is scared. He can hear Bruce’s heartbeat because the office is dead quiet and soundproof on top of that.

“I can’t work with you like this. You’re endangering yourself. You’re endangering everyone in Stark Tower by getting this way around me, of all people.” Tony watches Bruce take one of his big meditation breaths. “Listen, Tony. I want to help. I really do. I—“ his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. Tony always liked that. Now it just makes him seem weaker. “I hate seeing you like this.”

He’s really starting to get pissed now. “Well, you know what? This is how it is. This is who I am.”

“That’s too bad.” He’s getting up, turning away. Tony can’t decide if he’s terrified of Bruce leaving or angry that he’d even have the gall. Before he even realizes what he’s doing his tumbler shatters next to the door, though he was aiming for Bruce’s back. Bruce turns around to throw him one of his sad puppy-dog looks. “I’ll come back when you realize you need help.”

He wanted Bruce to get mad, but of course he can’t. He swallows a big lump in his throat and staggers after him, fingers clutching his cheap linen sleeve. Bruce tries to shrug him off but Tony’s grip is too strong. “Don’t go. Please. Please don’t.” Bruce hands him his goddamn letter, and Tony crumples it in one hand and throws it on the ground. When Bruce tries to pull away again he succeeds, and makes it a few more steps before Tony can open his mouth. “Is this about your father?”

Bruce freezes in his tracks. Bull’s eye. He gives Tony the most haunting look Tony has ever seen. He looks about half the size he was before, shoulders crumpled, fear like a visible weight on his head. “This isn’t about Brian. This is about you, Tony. This is about—“ Bruce always paces when he wants to say something, “—you getting better.”

Tony throws his arms out wide. “From what? From myself?”

“Don’t. Just.This isn’t you. This is alcoholism and possibly depression. Just let me—“

“Let you do what? Fix it all? You’re pathetic. You can’t even fix yourself, and you’ve been trying for how long? Ten years?”

Bruce purses his lips, nodding to something Tony doesn’t see or understand. “I’m leaving. Call me—call me when you’re sober, okay?” Tony didn’t follow him down the hall, and Bruce didn’t bother to look back this time.

Has he picked a destination? Bought plane tickets? Packed a bag? Honestly Tony hasn’t been paying that much attention to that sort of thing since. Well. Maybe Bruce has a point. He pulls his hip flask off his belt, empties it out into the nearest office plant, and chucks it down his trash chute. There’s a fully stocked bar in his office that he’ll deal with tomorrow. He deserves another drink now, and he pours the last of his bourbon into a not-shattered tumbler. Still, couldn’t hurt to have a list. “JARVIS, get me some names of recommended psychologists in the area. Off the record.”

“Welcome back, sir.”

Tony toasts to the speakers and downs another shot, sighing as he sits back in his chair. One step at a time, Stark.


End file.
